


the shape of your body, it's blue

by elaphoi



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/F, character study and a lot of sentimental fluff, mature for a throwaway line or two!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23404270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaphoi/pseuds/elaphoi
Summary: In your daydreams, Annie wears bubblegum lip gloss, and she laughs against your skin. Annie isn’t laughing now, and her breath is hot and tastes of vodka, and Abed and Troy are in the next room waging war between Yoshi and Princess Peach. You shouldn’t encourage her, like you shouldn’t stare at her mouth, like you shouldn’t let her lay her head on your chest when she’s had one drink too many, but you do anyway.Because maybe you only know how to be selfish. You guess that makes Jeff your perfect match.S4 Britta/Annie AU
Relationships: Annie Edison & Britta Perry, Annie Edison & Jeff Winger, Annie Edison/Britta Perry, Britta Perry & Jeff Winger, Troy Barnes & Annie Edison & Abed Nadir
Comments: 18
Kudos: 171





	the shape of your body, it's blue

**Author's Note:**

> In which I take a long dead sitcom WAY too seriously. Some housekeeping: 
> 
> 1\. This takes place in an AU S4 that assumes Britta is already living with Annie and the boys, and Britta is sneaking around with Annie instead of Troy, because S4 sucks and I can do whatever I want with it!
> 
> 2\. I read a Paste Magazine article that described La Croix as "a glass of dirty nickels" and couldn't not include that, so...credit where credit is due. I'm aware this point is completely bizarre out of context.
> 
> 3\. This is very much an ode to early seasons Britta who was hot and futch and generally pretty intelligent, and picks and chooses from her later characterization because, again, this is my house now.
> 
> 4\. It's all in second person POV, I'm sorry. Sometimes your local lesbian (me) gets tired of trying to differentiate between two characters who both use she/her

The first time Annie kisses you, you think it must be a mistake. 

It’s near midnight, and you’re getting your ass handed to you in Super Smash Bros. You’re four drinks in, and your hands are sweaty where they grip the remote, and you can’t figure out how to make Lucina fucking jump. You hadn’t touched a Nintendo 64 since you were nine, at the game station in the old McDonald’s by your house; maybe you were better then, but probably not by much. 

“You’re terrible at this. Abed is going to crush you,” Annie tells you, and slings an arm over your shoulder to tap the blue button. “‘A’ is jump. ‘B’ is punch.” She’s had a few drinks, too. You can tell by the feel of her breath on your neck, warm and sticky-sweet with cheap moscato. There are subtle indications, too. She’s always looser, after; she finds small reasons to touch you like this, under the guise of bossing you around. 

It’s dark, except for the glare off the television, but there’s light enough to see her by. You’re preoccupied, watching her watching you, and Abed shoves you to your death three times before you realize winning is probably off the table by now. “Knock yourself out,” you say, shoving the controller into Troy’s waiting hands. You stand before he can push you aside to make room for himself, and make a beeline for the kitchen, where there’s something stronger than Annie’s sugary wine waiting for you. 

There’s a six-pack of Smirnoffs in the fridge, and you’re popping the cap on your first when Annie joins you. “Want some?” you ask, partly because it seems like the polite thing to do, but mostly because Annie’s looking at you again, in that way that makes your neck feel hot, and you need her to stop. 

She takes a deep swig from the bottle and her mouth puckers around the rim, like she would spit it out if she could. It’s a pretty mouth, still red with the stain of this morning’s lipstick, and sticky from your vodka. 

You shouldn’t be looking at Annie, at her mouth, like this. Because you have this way of ruining everything you touch, and that doesn’t matter when it’s Jeff; he ruins things, too. You ruin each other, you think, and that makes it okay. Not _good_ , usually, but...okay. 

Annie's different. She’s a soap bubble you don’t want to pop. 

You make a move to take your vodka back, but Annie brings the bottle to her lips again. It’s half-empty when she finally gives it up, and there’s a tightness in your chest as you set it on the counter. You think you mumble something about the dishes, then, how they’re starting to pile up and you should get them now, before it gets worse. And Annie pins your hands flat against the counter, and leans up on her toes and kisses you full on the mouth. 

It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it. You’re only human, and not a well functioning one at that. 

In your daydreams, Annie wears bubblegum lip gloss, and she laughs against your skin. Annie isn’t laughing now, and her breath is hot and tastes of vodka, and Abed and Troy are in the next room waging war between Yoshi and Princess Peach. You shouldn’t encourage her, like you shouldn’t stare at her mouth, like you shouldn’t let her lay her head on your chest when she’s had one drink too many, but you do anyway. 

Because maybe you only know how to be selfish. You guess that makes Jeff your perfect match. 

“Annie,” you say, when she pulls away. “You’re drunk.” 

Her eyes are like moons, bottomless and blue. “I know,” she murmurs, and lays a hand against your waist. You think she wants more from you, and you want to give it, and you want to _not_ want to, but she only pushes you away. She fishes for the rubber gloves, in the cabinet beneath the sink, and pulls them on up to her elbows. 

“You can dry.” 

***

Neither one of you wants to say so, but it’s weird after that. Annie doesn’t drink again, and she doesn’t touch you either. She laughs more than usual, hoping to fill the silence between you; it’s a high, strained sound, and that’s how you know she hasn’t forgotten. 

On Sunday morning, Annie goes swimming at the lake with Troy and Abed. Troy pokes his head through your bedroom door and asks if you want to come, and Annie looks down at her feet like she’s waiting for you to refuse. You have things to do, you say, and anyway, lakes are full of brain-eating amoeba and other gross junk, and you’d really rather not if that’s cool. 

You’re probably imagining Annie’s disappointment. It’s hard to tell, sometimes. 

You spend the afternoon tidying up, which you don’t do half as well as Annie, and taking a criminally long shower in the apartment’s only bathroom. You’ve got a Pixies track blasting as you dry your hair, so you must not hear them come in. You think you’re alone, halfway to your bedroom in your white cotton towel, until she calls your name. 

Annie is in her room, standing with her back to the door, plucking helplessly at the clasp to her bikini top. She half-turns to you, and asks, “Can you help? Please,” in that open, guileless way you can’t refuse. 

She smells faintly of freshwater and Coppertone, and her hair had dried into a dark, wavy mass.

“Yeah,” you say, looking away, at anything but Annie and her bare back, and her long legs. “Sure.” 

At close quarters, you can see she’s burned badly, the skin of her back mottled red and hot beneath your fingers. There’s a sharp intake of breath as your thumb slips beneath the band of her top, and you murmur a soothing refrain of, “Sorry, sorry,” until Annie loosens again. “Don’t you always wear, like, SPF 100?” 

Annie sighs impatiently. “I couldn’t reach my back. Can you get it or not?” 

You can. The catch is snagged on a stray piece of thread, and so you lean down and snap it with your teeth. Annie gasps, “Britta!” like she’s the scandalized heroine of a harlequin romance and you’ve just torn her corset down the middle. “Got it,” you say, a little sheepishly, with your chin still digging into the raised ridge of Annie’s spine. 

She folds her arms over her chest to hold her top in place, and you think, for one fleeting moment, she might be angry with you. You don’t cross lines anymore; you don’t touch, and for God’s sake, you don’t put your mouth on her _body._

But she looks back at you over her shoulder, unsmiling but not unkind. There’s angry patches of red across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose; it’s a sweet reminder that Annie is only human, too. 

Sometimes, you think you might forget. 

“Thanks, Britta,” she says, so softly your heart misses a beat. 

“Any time.” 

***

The first time you kiss Annie, she’s dressed like a princess. 

Abed had flown out of the apartment moments before, still in his bathrobe and bowler hat, but there’s light bleeding beneath the Dreamatorium door. You aren’t supposed to peek, and so of course you do. 

It should be Troy waiting for Abed in that strange, sterile room with its walls cross-hatched in yellow tape, but it’s Annie instead. She’s got her knees drawn up to her chest, and it’s a moment before you realize what she’s wearing: the billowing, oversized nightgown and matching crown, lovingly fashioned from construction paper and gold foil. 

Annie looks up, blinking against the stark hallway light, and you smile. “Nice look, _Geneva_.” 

“Oh, ha ha,” she scoffs. But she scoots aside to make room for you anyway. 

“No, really,” you say, looping a dark ringlet around your finger. Of course—only Annie would think to style her hair for a game of make-believe. Your smile turns teasing. “Totally sexy.” 

Annie’s scowl softens, and her head tips briefly toward you, like she means to rest her head against your shoulder. She thinks better of it, though, and leans back against the wall instead. “I’m sorry,” she says, with her eyes trained on the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” 

You watch from the corner of your eye as she picks at a fold in her nightgown. “Uh. Assumed...what?” 

Annie bites her lip, the still-sunburned planes of her nose and cheeks heating. Her eyes widen for emphasis. “That you...” She clears her throat significantly. _“Y’know."_

“Annie, if you’re going to go around experimenting with girls, you should probably get used to saying the word.” 

It’s not that you don’t mean it; you do. But you’re self-aware enough to acknowledge there’s some satisfaction in flustering Annie. She makes it so easy, after all. “I’m not...going around... _experimenting,_ ” she splutters, indignant now. “You make it sound so...so clinical! It wasn’t like that.” 

This is unexplored territory, and you’re careful to keep your voice even when you ask, “Then what was it like?” 

She folds her arms. “What was it like for you?” 

“I asked first,” you say—not unreasonably, you think. And Annie’s mouth sets in that way you secretly like, the cartoonish pout beneath furrowed brows. She shifts in place, tucking her legs beneath her, stalling for time. “Annie?” you press, because you’ve never been known for your patience, and your heart is somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. 

“I just...don’t want to make it weird.” You raise a brow, at Annie in her little Laura Ingalls dress with the paper tiara, and she amends, “Well. Weird _er_.” 

You brush the hair back from your shoulder, in open invitation. Annie sighs with relief and settles readily against you, like she’d liked to do once, before things took a turn for the weird. Her face is upturned, the paper crown askew, watching you watching her in the dusky half-light. She smiles, a little ruefully. “We’re okay, right?” she asks, softly. 

And you kiss her, for the sake of convenience, because her mouth is so close it seems wasteful not to. It’s awkward almost at once, and you’re craning sharply to find the right angle, to ease the crick in your neck. But Annie gives easily, gladly, leaning up on her knees to accommodate. She reaches out to card a hand through your hair, and the warmth of her mouth on yours stirs something in you, some steady, pulsing need. 

Her mouth parts eagerly for your tongue, and she tastes, now, as you once imagined she would, sweet beneath a sheen of candy lip balm. When Annie pulls back, the lack of her seems crushing. Her lips are worried pink as bubblegum, and pursed in that way that means she’s thinking deeply; you really wish she wouldn’t. “So,” she says, a little breathless. “We’re doing this, then?” 

“Annie,” you sigh, “Could you at least try to live in the moment for once?” 

She frowns, and the skin between her brows creases in delicate lines; you resist the urge to kiss her worries smooth. You aren’t so sentimental. Or at least, this is what you would like to think. 

“Fine!” Annie snaps, and wrenches you down by the shoulders. You fall into her, startled, and she hooks a hand beneath your chin and kisses gleefully, bruisingly back. 

***

You aren’t dating; you wouldn’t know how if you wanted to. 

But you learn Annie anyway, without meaning to, and file your findings away...for a rainy day, you guess—or whatever. 

Annie collects stuffed animals; you find them in her closet in a wicker basket, lovingly arranged in order of size. She hides them, thinking you—with your classic rock vinyls in their worn sleeves, the cork board papered with keepsakes from past protests, and half-dead succulents lining your window sill—would only laugh. And so you tell her the truth: that you always forget to recycle; that you keep pop albums in the shoebox beneath your bed; that hiding your softness doesn’t really make you cool—just scared.

“Don’t be like me, okay?” you say, and kiss her senseless until she relents.

You learn that Annie’s shoulders freckle in summer months. You like to map them with your mouth, in the cool dark of her bedroom; she wears sundresses, in fuchsia and lilac and teal, with thin straps you can brush aside for cleaner access. 

Mostly, you learn to find rhythm with her. 

You come awake to Annie’s breath on your skin, and her nose buried soundly in the crook of your neck. She rises early and coaxes you to do the same. Sometimes she straddles you, and kisses you, and dips teasing fingers beneath the band of your underwear. More often, she threatens to give Troy and Abed your share of her homemade pancakes; you find that works just as well. 

Annie runs errands in the afternoon. She thumbs through mail and dusts the countertops and passes Abed his lunch through the Dreamatorium door. You like these hours best, when Troy and Abed are preoccupied with Mario Kart or make-believe or building Transformers out of empty cereal boxes. When it’s only the two of you, she’s more easily swayed from responsibility; more liable to sit with you, cross-legged in that patch of summer sun beneath the open window, and smoke until you’re both loose-limbed and content. 

Abed finds you like this one lazy Sunday. You’re painting Annie’s toenails, humming Joni Mitchell around the stick of gum in your mouth. And you aren’t _doing_ anything, strictly speaking; you aren’t dating, even. 

You want to tell him this, for some reason. But you blow on Annie’s toes instead, and say, “Other foot,” and Abed leaves you be. 

*** 

You spend your last summer night in the woods on the outskirts of Greendale.

Troy is designated drinks provider, and he arrives with two twelve packs of La Croix in tow. He’d been among the first to drift off, and so you are all gratefully relieved of informing him that La Croix is not some obscure, French brand of hard alcohol. "It's barely digestible," Jeff mutters, grimacing around a mouthful of the stuff.

And so it becomes an instrument of torture instead.

It's not all bad. You're kneeling in a patch of grass between Annie’s legs, and she's running her hands through your hair, gently working the knots from your curls. She's wearing your sweatshirt, though Jeff had offered his, too, and you're still smug with the memory of it. You like the way the sleeves hang down past her knuckles, like the way she smells—beneath layers of fresh soil and bug spray and tree sap—like you.

Abed makes you all run the gamut of drinking games, like he's determined to recreate _Wet Hot American Summer_ before the semester begins Monday morning. Except the La Croix goes down like vinegar, half the study group had begun to doze off, and you're sober as a judge. You draw the line at spin the bottle, and Abed decides truth or dare is the bad kind of cliche, so you go back and forth a while before settling on something. 

It’s Annie’s turn now. She’s gathering your hair into a loose braid, working a stray curl back from behind your ear with the point of a nail. You shake her knee, and she looks up, wide-eyed. “Never have I ever…” Her mouth pulls at one corner as she deliberates. “Lost a game of Monopoly.” 

“A thrilling confession,” Jeff snorts. Everyone drinks; Annie had beaten all of you at least twice. “Tastes like a glass of dirty nickels,” he says, setting down his fourth can of La Croix. 

You touch your tongue to the roof of your mouth. “It _is_ weirdly metallic.” 

Annie bounces in her seat. “I wouldn’t know,” she says breezily. “I haven’t had any.” 

Jeff’s scowling as he pops the ring on a fifth can. “Oh, c’mon. She has to be cheating.” 

At this, Annie lets slip an affronted little gasp. “Well excuse _me_ for not going skinny dipping or getting kicked out of a bar or...or listening to Justin Bieber!” 

“That was _one_ time,” Jeff snaps, “and it was on someone else’s radio!” 

You’re not listening, mostly because Abed had caught your eye across the fizzling campfire, and there’s something in that look that unsettles you. You shift against Annie’s leg, anxious without fully knowing why. Abed tilts his head to the side, considering. “I’ve got one,” he says, and _then_ you find a name for that feeling pitted deep in your chest. 

You’re pretty sure it’s dread. 

“Never have I ever,” he says, “kissed Britta Perry.” And Annie inhales sharply, fingers stilling against your hair. 

“Should I be concerned that I’m being unfairly targeted?” Jeff asks, reaching reluctantly for the can of coconut La Croix. Abed doesn’t spare Jeff a glance; he doesn’t blink, either. 

Annie looks at you, imploring, a startled deer in the headlights. You want to tell her it doesn’t matter, but you think that maybe it does, after all. Because this strangeness between you both had been a summer thing, by mutual agreement; but it’s September now, and Annie’s fingers are still beneath your hair, skimming the nape of your neck. 

You pass Annie your open can. And she rolls her eyes, points of color blooming in her cheeks, and downs the rest in one go. 

Jeff’s mouth drops open. “WHAT?” 

And Abed grins. “End _scene_.” 

***

Annie takes to Dance Dance Revolution with the same level of fervor she allotts dioramas, student debates and proving other people wrong. You can’t make heads or tails of the barrage of arrows, let alone will your legs to follow them, but Annie stomps her way through Butterfly on Expert with uncanny precision. She’s sweat-slick and beaming when she drops onto the couch beside you, reaching across your chest for her margarita on its floral coaster on the end table. 

She says “Hey,” and you say, “Hey” back, like you’re some old married couple trotting out the steps to a familiar dance. That should scare you, probably; it doesn’t, and it scares you that it doesn’t, which means maybe you haven’t matured all that much after all. 

God is _that_ a relief. 

Annie’s still pink-cheeked, and her hand trembles a little as she brings the glass to her lips, sucking salt from the rim. You’re tempted to kiss her then, in front of Abed tucked in his armchair and Troy fumbling the moves to Captain Jack. You don’t, because you’re terrible for thinking it, because you don’t want to mess this up—because frankly, you’re not sure this should even still be happening; you think it’s only your selfishness keeping it alive. 

“Annie,” you tell her solemnly, “I think you may be developing a drinking problem.” Her mouth makes an ‘O’ of comic outrage. “Here, let me help.” You take advantage of her distraction and pluck the drink from her hands, knocking back the rest like a shot at a high school rager. It tastes overwhelmingly of strawberries, and you’re grimacing as you wipe the residue from your mouth. “You’re welcome.” 

“My hero,” Annie says, dripping derision. She sets the emptied glass aside and scoots closer. Annie’s legs are bared beneath the hem of her pajama shorts, like an invitation to touch her; you pull away, censoring the urge. But you guess it’s no secret that you _want_ to, because Annie’s nose scrunches, like it does when she’s confronted with an especially difficult problem in Statistics 210. “Britta. Is everything okay?” 

You laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Super okay,” you promise. “Definitely totally okay.” 

Annie’s frown deepens and you think, belatedly, there may have been one qualifier too many. She stands abruptly. “I’m going to refill my drink.” 

It’s an oddly pointed statement. You squint up at her. “Okay…” 

Annie’s eyes widen meaningfully, and you wish—not for the first time—you were more fluent in this subtle language between women. By the time you’ve worked out that she wants you to come along, Annie’s already rolling her eyes, taking your hand in hers, and tugging you bodily toward the kitchen. She drops your hand the instant your bare feet hit linoleum, and makes for the fridge. 

“Shirley keeps asking if we’re ‘having relations out of wedlock’,” Annie tells you, almost conversationally. You manage a strangled sound as Annie emerges, brandishing the margarita mix. You want to ask what Annie told her, but she says, “Salt, please,” and puts her hand out expectantly, so you’re forced to go rummaging through the cabinets. 

“Jeff’s been pretty cool about it, though,” she adds, and you recognize—with growing alarm—the tone Annie uses when she wants to sound off-handed. You find the salt, wedged behind a half-eaten box of Inspector Spacetime cereal, and pass it to her. “Thanks,” she says, and then, tentatively, “He wanted to know if we were, um...dating?” 

Annie bites her lip. “Are we?” 

You freeze. 

“I don’t know,” you say carefully. Annie pours more tequila into the mixture than strictly necessary. She keeps her back to you as she flicks the blender on, and before long even the DDR music is drowned beneath its roar. It forces silence between you for an agonizing thirty seconds. 

“Britta,” she says, when the quiet resumes. Her eyes are narrowed, almost suspiciously. “Is this about…” There’s a delicate pause. Annie squares her shoulders, gathering courage. “Is this because we’re both girls?” 

“Annie,” you sigh, and she turns. She’s in your ratty Flaming Lips t-shirt, and those hideous fluffy slippers, and her hair had begun to frizz. Her mouth is pursed, almost defiantly, like she’s rallying a line of defense against impending rejection. You might have laughed at this—at the absurd notion that you might find _Annie_ unappealing—if not for how intimately you understood it yourself. “Annie,” you repeat, gentling now. “Lack of attraction isn’t the problem here.” 

Annie turns up her chin, aiming for nonchalance and landing several feet shy. “It’s not?”

You snort. “Definitely not.” 

Her cheeks heat with pleasure, but she keeps her frown fixed. “Then...what is?” 

Annie’s always been good with words; you aren’t, and so you don’t know how to articulate this _thing_ taking shape inside you. 

You thumb through your sordid history like tabs in a filing cabinet—consider the not-boyfriend of your Peace Corps days, who had worked his hand beneath your pants in a Myanmar bathroom, and grinned from ear to ear when you pretended to come; consider your carnie ex-something, whose brutally transparent disinterest in you had registered with a kind of perverse, self-flagellating satisfaction. And Jeff _fucking_ Winger, who had seemed—sometimes—to think nearly as little of you as he did of himself. 

There had been—you think—no danger of disappointing _them_. And anyway, what would it matter if you had? 

Annie’s different, of course. And it’s not that she files her own taxes, and separates her laundry out by color, and knows how to pan-sear salmon; it’s not that she’s got a future, when you’re hardly keeping your head above water. Or, well—maybe it _is_ those things, just a little. 

Mostly, though, it’s the way she looks at you—like she sees you; or like she wants to, at least. You’re not sure which is worse. 

You had hoped to gather your thoughts, but they’re still scattered, and Annie is eying you with concern. “I’ve never had…” A vague, helpless gesture, crowding the space between you. “... _this_ before. And honestly? I think I would ruin it.” You laugh, aiming for cool, casual self-deprecation; it emerges sounding brittle and anxious instead. 

Annie’s wincing, in that way she does when she’s about to deliver an especially harsh blow. “Or...no offense, Britta, but maybe you’re just scared?” Her face softens. “You can’t run forever, y’know,” she says, like she knows; like she’s tried, too. You remember that night in Annie’s bedroom, when she’d told you—in hushed tones, eyes fixed firmly on the stuffed rabbit tucked between her pillows—she might be (a _lesbian)_. You think of Annie and Vaughn; Annie and Rich; Annie and _Jeff_ , and ache for her. 

Her shoulders lift. “Unless you don’t want—”

“I do,” you say hastily, before you can help yourself. And Annie blooms. 

“Okay,” she says, low and soothing. “So, we take it slow.” 

“Slow,” you repeat, holding your skepticism at bay. 

“Right, like…” Her eyes light with some sudden epiphany. “You could walk me to class, and maybe...carry my books for me?” 

You won’t be swayed by her bashful routine, the pink cheeks and downcast eyes, like some little woodland creature straight from _Bambi_. This is Annie, after all; there’s bound to be some measure of calculation. “What,” you groan, “like women are too frail to carry their own textbooks?” 

Annie rolls her eyes, shattering the facade of blushing ingenue. “Britta, we’re both girls!” 

This, admittedly, makes for a compelling argument. “Mmm,” you hedge. “Okay, I’ll bite. What else would I do? Hold the door open? Pull out your chair?” You’re teasing. Mostly.

Annie tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and clears her throat. “If you want,” she says, with prim indifference. But she’s watching you, out of the corner of her eye, and her mouth pulls at a smile. She’s beautiful like this, in your ugly shirt and her ugly slippers; stubborn, and beautiful, and more stubborn. 

“Huh. How about this?” you ask, and hoist her cleanly onto the counter. You expect a string of protests, but Annie recovers quickly from her surprise. She scoots forward to wrap both legs firmly around your waist. And this had been _your_ turn to woo Annie—classically, sweetly, like you think she must want; but she looks up at you, breathlessly smug, and your throat goes suddenly dry. You’ve still got one hand against the small of her back, the other trapped beneath her bare thigh; and so you’re helpless to do more than watch as Annie winds her arms around your neck, pulling you down. 

You’re uncomfortably aware of your proximity to the living room, where Abed is shuffling out of sync with Cartoon Heroes. Annie’s fingers curl around your neck, the points of her neatly manicured nails digging divots into the skin. Her mouth grazes the shell of your ear. “Maybe,” she murmurs on an exhale, a puff of warmth against your shoulder. 

Your hold on Annie tightens instinctively, seeking to press her more deeply into you—but she pulls back, and her hands fall away. Hazily, you look down at Annie, at the stubborn set of her mouth. “Unless,” she says archly, “That’s too much commitment for you?” 

“We can try...” you start, and Annie’s smile unfurls, like she already knows. “Try!” you repeat, for emphasis, “the whole, girlfriend... _thing_. Just…” You wince. “Do me a favor. Sound the alarm if I start getting all mushy, okay?” 

Annie’s nose wrinkles; she’s still smiling, though. “Is that likely?” 

You look at her. A sound escapes you, half a sigh and half a groan. “Extremely.” 

So, you stop pretending you don’t want this, and channel your energy into more useful pursuits—namely, tugging Annie forward until her thighs hitch around your waist. There’s a noise of muffled surprise as you lean down to kiss her, and then she’s kissing back, hard, and her hands are straining to find purchase in your hair. She’s wearing that chapstick you’re so fond of stealing, the kind that tastes waxy and comes in the little pink tin; it’s kind of gross but you want to keep kissing her anyway, and if _that’s_ not the ideal start to a mature relationship, you don’t know what is. 

Your teeth catch on her lower lip, and she rocks almost helplessly against you. You’ve been in her position before, backed against the counter with your legs hiked around some dude’s torso, and it’s kind of unbelievably hot to have a woman—this woman—wrapped around _you_ instead; her thighs bracketing your waist, your hands palming her ass through the thin fabric of her shorts. 

Not that you’re laboring under any delusions _you’re_ the one in control here. 

Annie pulls away to throw a startled glance over her shoulder at Troy and Abed, still laser-focused on their game, and then—apparently satisfied—moves to press a hasty kiss to the side of your jaw; it’s wet, open-mouthed, and you think your knees might have buckled if you weren’t supporting Annie’s weight, too. 

You free one hand to slip beneath her shirt— _your_ shirt—and rub a thumb over the cotton of her bra, in long, lazy strokes. Annie makes a pleased sound and leans into you, crushing your hand more firmly against her—and then seems, regrettably, to remember herself. “Britta!” she hisses, slapping your hand away. “They’re going to hear!” 

Ominously, the music falls to a low thrum. You turn to find Abed watching you—remote in hand, one finger on the volume. His head tips to one side. “Oh,” Abed says, “Were we not supposed to be listening?” He shrugs, slow and untroubled. “I’m glad you worked things out. I thought that arc would get dragged out much longer.” 

You’re not sure which of you is redder. “You guys!” Annie snaps, leaping from the counter; she gives the hem of her shorts a forceful tug. “You were listening this whole time? _Seriously?_ What the hell?” 

Troy’s head, just visible over the couch backrest, shakes frantically from side to side. “Why?” he whispers, sounding anguished. “You have two bedrooms. You have _two_ _bedrooms!_ ”

“Then why didn’t you _say_ something?” Annie demands, and—incredibly—stomps her slippered foot on the linoleum. 

“I don’t know!” Troy wails, “It all happened so fast, and Abed said not to interrupt the scene, and it was all so _confusing—_ ” 

Annie’s nostrils flare. “Abed said _what?”_

“ _Okay_ ,” you say, aiming to pacify—mostly because you can feel the beginnings of a migraine threatening. “Troy, you’re right. We have bedrooms. And we will just...go...use them now. Cool? Cool.” You make a grab for Annie’s wrist and tug her bodily from the kitchen; she’s still rosy-cheeked and her mouth is red from kissing you, and you’ve never been hungrier for the four walls of your room. Or hers—whichever, really. You’re pretty sure an outhouse would do at this point. 

“But it’s Annie’s turn,” Abed says, frowning. “She’s leading by...” He consults the neon screen. “Forty points.” 

Annie looks to Abed, startled—and then back to you. She chews at her lower lip, eyes rounding. Because she can’t _not_ win. You know this about her; you love this about her—even if right now you kind of hate it, too. 

You roll your eyes, not unfondly, and gesture to the mat. “Oh, go ahead. I know you want to.” 

And Annie, beaming, plants her hands on your shoulders and drops a kiss to your mouth; it’s sweet and fleeting and oddly chaste, and you’re half in a daze as she pulls away and bounds for the living room. You follow, and sink onto the couch. Troy veers sharply left, flashing you a withering look as he does; he’ll get over it, you think—probably. 

Annie dances until her legs wobble; through the fog of sudden exhaustion, your eyes follow her—register the flying hair and pumping legs and frenzied flurry of movement with dim amusement. Troy slides one of Annie’s decorative, embroidered pillows beneath your head; you want to tell him you’re awake, totally—but you can’t muster the effort. 

You wake to late night gloom; the television screen is wiped blank, and the living room newly empty. There’s the faint sound of running water from the kitchen, and then the dull slap of slippers on hardwood. The arm of the couch sags beneath some sudden, added weight, and a hand comes to comb through your hair, smoothing your curls flat against the pillow. You strain toward that touch, wanting desperately to linger like this, sweetly on the cusp of sleep; you are just conscious enough to dread the prospect of getting up.

But Annie only nudges you and says, blearily, “Move over.” You do. She curls against you. Her bony elbows jut against your chest, and her hair gets in your mouth; her skin—where it touches you—is still sticky with sweat, which is pretty gross, actually. You think she’s asleep, but she huffs a ticklish laugh when you bury your nose between her shoulder blades. 

That brings you wide awake, even as Annie’s breathing slips into steady rhythm. And it’s weird, that she’ll still be here tomorrow, on this threadbare couch with her too-cold feet wedged beneath your thighs. In the morning, you won’t scramble to gather your things and leave through the fire escape, or the nearest open window; you won’t send fifty texts, and bite your nails to the quick waiting for answers that don’t come. 

These habits came easily, that sting of dismissal a familiar state of being—addictive, even. This thing between you is—by comparison—so deeply foreign. But your hand sneaks beneath the fabric of her shirt and idles at the slope of her waist, against soft skin; she grumbles beneath her breath, and turns on her side to bury her face in your chest. And you think—you’re finally, sort of getting the hang of this thing; of being wanted, that is. 

Or getting there, anyway; these changes, you know, don’t happen overnight. 

You close your eyes, and find dreamless sleep. 


End file.
